Chapter 8
EIGHT
Advik
“Yeah... I’ll just—listen, I gotta—”
“And have you eaten today?” Vikram cuts me off.
I clench my jaw. The routine’s always the same. I could throw my phone across the room, but I won’t. Because he means well. He always does.
Even my eating habits are part of his concern now. Like I’m some fragile thing that’ll shatter if left unattended.
“Yeah, man. I ate. But I really—”
“Wait. Ishika wants to say hi.”
I exhale, resigned, just as her soft voice comes on the line. “Viko...”
Cautious. Always cautious with me now.
“I had the second ultrasound. Did you see the pictures?”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. She’s excited. I should be too. They’re having a baby, for God’s sake. But everything lately feels like it’s moving in fast-forward—and I’m stuck in pause.
“I... yeah, I saw them. Twelve weeks now? Or is it eleven?”
“It’s thirteen,” she says quietly. “Are you... will you visit? I’ll make that stupid kofta you like.”
Their kindness guts me. Because if I hadn’t ended up in the hospital two months ago, they wouldn’t be treading on eggshells like this.
If the pills had worked, they’d be mourning—but moving on.
Now they’re stuck in this limbo with me.
“I’d like that, Ishi,” I murmur. “Maybe next week.”
I have zero intention of showing up. But if it keeps her smiling, fine.
We hang up after a few polite exchanges. I stare at my laptop, like it might suddenly offer answers. Something, anything.
It’s been seven hours since I opened the Greesha dossier.
And yeah, maybe if I look at it again, it’ll finally sink in. Never does, though.
That she’s gone. That I need to stop reliving a life that doesn’t exist anymore.
The overdose was supposed to be an end.
But now it’s being framed as a beginning.
My therapist—whom I was forced to see—says I’ve created an alternate reality in my mind. One where she’s still alive. One where I still get to love her.
And the dossier is how I drag myself into functioning. A coping mechanism, he calls it.
I call it survival.
“Mr. Advik?”
Gitika’s voice pulls me out of my head. She’s GenVault’s executive assistant. Somehow, she manages four senior partners on her own. I still don’t know how she does it.
“Yeah?” I say, shifting into my practiced professional tone. I don’t remember what my real one sounds like anymore.
“Mr. Dev’s in the Serenity Room. Prepping for the presentation. Mr. Mehul Bedi will be here in about an hour.”
“Got it. I’ll be there in a minute.”
She leaves, and I sag in my chair.
I skim the ten-slide deck. It’s solid. Not mind-blowing, but solid enough for a first meeting.
Mehul Bedi—big industrial name. Textile and furniture magnate. International trade. Recently developed a thing for smart tech and integrated home systems.
Which means: our territory.
I can do this. Security’s my lane. I can project-manage the shit out of this.
But this also happens to be my first major client pitch since...
Since that night.
Publicly, people think I had a cardiac scare. So do my parents.
Thirty-two isn’t too young for heart issues, apparently.
But only Vikram and Ishika know the truth.
The pills. The reason my heart gave up. It’s not a surprise to me, though.
I grab my blazer and head down to the serenity room. Dev’s already there, sipping coffee and scanning the slides.
“Jyoti’s grabbing more coffee. You want some?” he asks without looking up.
“Nah,” I mutter. “Avoiding anything that’ll screw with my ticker.”
He laughs. “One of these days, I’ll convince her to buy decaf pods.”
I smirk faintly and settle in beside him. We go over the deck together, refining the pitch. It’s not a complicated account—but Mehul’s a big name. He’ll want polish.
An hour later, our deck’s grown to fourteen slides. Dev’s magic touch.
Now it includes multi-year projections, competitor analysis, and retention models.
It’s clean. Convincing. Bulletproof.
We head to Conference Room C. Dev cradles his laptop like it’s a newborn.
Just as we’re about to round the corner, Gitika steps in front of us, looking hesitant.
“Uh... slight hiccup. There are—bodyguards—posted outside the conference room. We weren’t notified. Also... they’re checking for office IDs.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
She nods. “They’re... intense. Sorry, I should’ve flagged sooner.”
I pull out my ID from my inner blazer pocket. Dev groans—he’ll have to go back to his desk for his.
I step around the corner—and stop.
There’s a tall man with grey-streaked hair, stiff and alert. Ex-military, maybe.
And next to him... a woman.
Back turned to me.
Posture like steel.
I take slow, steady steps forward.
No sudden movements.
We’ve never had clients this... protected.
And suddenly, it feels like this isn’t just another pitch.
This is something else entirely.
I offer a tentative smile, lifting my ID and holding it out for the stone-faced man. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even twitch.
Okay then.
His eyes flick to the woman standing in front of him. Her back is still turned to me—rigid, unreadable.
And then I see it.
A subtle shift of her elbow, a fluid motion under her jacket.
She’s reaching for her gun.
My heart skips a beat.
What the fuck?
I freeze. My brain immediately goes into overdrive, years of security protocol and disaster briefings flashing behind my eyes.
Did I do something wrong?
Did we send the wrong brief? Did I trip some geo-political landmine I didn’t know existed?
Oh God. Did this client bring armed guards because he thinks we’re a threat?
No—Dev’s still coming, probably chatting away with Gitika. If this were a threat scenario, he’d be down already.
Unless I’m the target?
Shit. Shit. Shit—
I inhale sharply, pulse thudding behind my ribs.
Then—just as I start to slowly lower my ID—
The woman turns.
And my world stops spinning.
Because I’m... looking at a ghost.
Her face is angled just slightly, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
A deep scar carves down the side of her cheek, slicing at her brow—like a goddamn signature.
Her eyes—those fucking dark eyes—are watching me like she’s amused.
Like she’s been waiting for this moment.
Plotted it. Stalked it. Savored it.
Greesha.
Alive.
Scarred.
And smiling like death just winked at me.
My breath catches. My fingers go cold.
No.
No, this isn’t—
This can’t be real.
She’s... dead.
I buried her in every goddamn corner of my mind.
I held her ghost and begged it to stay. I’ve kissed shadows, whispered to air, nearly died chasing her memory.
And now here she is.
Smirking at me like I’m the one who crawled out of hell.
This isn’t real.
I’m not standing in a hallway. I’m not on the job. I’m back in my own head—
Caught in one of those spirals my therapist keeps warning me about.
The ones where I confuse grief with resurrection.
But I can’t breathe.
Because if this is my mind again—
Then why the fuck is she not loving me back?
Because then she’s... real, isn’t she?